Keeping
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: Mr. Wonka keeps a scrapbook, and Charlie keeps, well, Mr. Wonka. teenage Charlie/Wonka Not much slash content--rating on the very safe side--but a bit at the end.


I don't own Mr. Willy Wonka, for if I did he would wear considerably less clothing all the time and that, my dear children, would not do at all . . .

Well, this is a bit more mild than my normal yaoi, lemon-infused fare, but I rather like it. Oh, and on that note, I think there may be a higher-rated sequel in the future, but I haven't quite decided yet. Enjoy!

Keeping

Charlie wandered from end of the big bookshelf to the other, quietly examining the spines of books, casually noting which ones were in English. Mr. Wonka worked on behind him, pulled up close to his big desk as he sorted piles of paper. Though at fifteen Charlie was still spared the trial of formal paperwork, he had decided that keeping Wonka company while he worked was his own personal contribution. So he would sit on the sofa, sipping hot chocolate, and pour over books on candy making or magazines from France or any number of fascinating things that Wonka kept in his office. Today, though, he lighted upon something he hadn't noticed before. It was a thick greenish spine, the width of his hand or bigger, and the book fell heavily into his arms as he pulled it out, revealing itself to be a scrap book.

Settling back on the sofa, Charlie balanced the heavy book on his knees and opened the cover. A calligraphy version of the familiar name "Willy Wonka" adorned the inner page. Flipping again, though, he was confronted with pictures of people he didn't recognize. The first was a woman in proper dress, holding a small baby in her arms. She was beautiful, Charlie thought, with her long brown hair and sweet smile. The other was also old, he knew, rather crinkled about the edges, a small and square school photo by the looks of it. The boy in it was dressed in a brown suit jacket, and he was trying to smile but prevented by a head apparatus that Charlie could only describe as cruel.

Logic told him that these were pictures of Mr. Wonka, but he found it difficult to synthesize the man in the top hat with the baby or the boy. It was strange. He turned the page.

Time seemed to skip forward a few years, and the schism between man and boy was narrowed with a snapshot of a smiling, adolescent Wonka wearing a long apron and standing in front of a huge taffy machine. Next to him was an older, bearded man, looking on proudly. Charlie knew it wasn't Dr. Wonka, but he hadn't the faintest idea who it was. He noted that the words on the shop window behind them were, even in their backwards state, not in English.

Expecting more pictures of his mentor, he was disappointed with the mass of clippings that occupied the next pages. They were newspaper and magazine articles about this and that being invented; it took him a moment to realize that the inventor was inevitably a young Willy Wonka. There were pages and pages, and some of the creations Charlie could identify with rooms that now inhabited the factory.

"I stopped keeping them after a while." Charlie jumped as the voice came from over his left shoulder. Mr. Wonka leaned over him, looking fondly at the book. Charlie felt for the world as if he'd been caught at something, but the candy maker didn't appear to be displeased. Coming around the sofa, he took a seat next to Charlie, touching one clipping with a gloved hand. "That was a good one."

He waited patiently as Charlie flipped one page, then another, until he came again upon photographs. He felt as if he had finally found Wonka concretely. The man in the picture stood proudly outside a little candy shop; he wore the top hat and coat now so familiar with Charlie, and there was his cane on the step. Most impressive was his bright smile that Charlie felt was more genuine than he had ever seen.

"My first day," Wonka supplied.

"When you opened your own shop."

"Uh-huh."

There were more pictures of that time. Wonka with workers, holding creations, handing sweets over to excited children. Charlie noticed that his hair was shorter. The next page was curiously misarranged, two pictures obviously having been removed. The remaining two were of the two same people, Mr. Wonka and another man. He was slightly taller than Wonka, had bright blond hair, and wore glasses. In the first they were in some kind of kitchen, both turned from their cooperative project to smile at the interloper with the camera. The second was taken from further away; they were outside, maybe in the park. Though the picture was not too clear, Charlie noticed they were holding hands.

Wonka's hand was currently hovering around the corner of the page, obviously anxious for Charlie to turn it over. Still, he couldn't figure out how to suggest it without seeming rude.

"Who is that?"

"A friend, Charlie."

"Was he your best friend?"

"Actually, he turned out not to be a very good friend at all…"

Regretful that he had engendered the sad tone, Charlie flipped the page. There was the factory under construction, and he giggled a little at Mr. Wonka in a hard hat, obviously giving directions to a lumbering man driving a bulldozer.

"Ah, the factory!" Wonka seemed pleased. He pointed to one of him, dressed even more splendidly that he had been on Charlie's subsequent arrival to the same place, outside the front steps. "I was so happy, Charlie. It was my dream, you know." And the smile he had, just then, had more of that real happiness than Charlie had seen in a long time.

"It's really fantastic."

They shared a look of knowing as Charlie turned the page. Here were various shots of the factory as it had been, all taken in areas that were fairly normal. Charlie wondered how much the workers had really seen. Had they been allowed in all the rooms? Were the rooms the same, even. It made him think that it had indeed changed drastically in intermittent years.

There was a shifting movement beside him, and Charlie noticed the sudden stiffening of Wonka's persona; he had just remembered something, and Charlie thought perhaps he would fade into a flashback. Instead, he became more attuned to Charlie. He pulled out his watch.

"Boy it's getting late. Shouldn't you get to bed, Charlie?"

"Just a little while more, sir, please? Tomorrow's Saturday anyhow."

Wonka gave him a somewhat shaky smile, but permitted it. When Charlie turned the next page, he realized in full what had bothered his friend. On the left there was a picture of the factory, but no smoke came from its stacks, and it seemed as chilled as the snow that surrounded it. A sloppily-cut article explained its closure, accented by a black-and-white picture of Wonka making the announcement at its gates. Charlie read the caption: "'I'm sorry,' says the famous Willy Wonka as he closes his factory forever."

"But it wasn't forever," he said, hoping to lighten the somber mood the picture had provoked. His eyes shifted to the right page in hopes of encountering something more pleasant. He was disappointed on that account, but suddenly curious on many others. There were no newspaper articles on the page, only a Polaroid photo and a handwritten note. He read it out loud.

"Dear Willy,

Remember, you always have a friend to call. 487-9954

Megan."

It was pasted just above the Polaroid, but shed little light on the picture. There was Mr. Wonka, looking thin and gaunt and too pale in a sickly colored hospital gown. He sat up against several pillows, but was not smiling. There were personal items in the background that denoted a long stay but failed to conceal the sterile quality of a hospital room.

"Were you sick?"

"In a way," and then he did reach for the page, but Charlie pulled it away to study the picture.

"What happened?" He didn't like the thought of Mr. Wonka being sick. The man had suffered only from one minor bout with a stomach flu during Charlie's time at the factory, and during that week seemed never to stop complaining about how bad the medicine was, effectively diminishing his illness and reassuring his heir that he would be back in order in a jiffy.

But all those years ago, the boy wondered who was looking after him. Charlie knew he had lived alone before, but with all the times he had urged the chocolatier to get some rest, eat some food, or sleep somewhere else besides the inventing room or his desk, he disliked the idea of that post being left unoccupied.

"I was sad, Charlie."

Now Charlie wasn't a stupid boy, and he wasn't even a little boy any more. Growing up poor, he became acquainted with the realities of life long before he encountered the fantastical, dream-filled world of Willy Wonka. He knew exactly what it was to be sad, but he also knew that when adults said "sad," they often meant something much more serious. He glances at the ever-gloved hands of Wonka and wondered, with all their abilities, what harm they could have concocted. The imagining had to be worse than the fact.

"What did you do?"

He obviously had not expected the questions, and the pause was long. Finally he tried to laugh it off.

"Oh, Charlie, it doesn't matter! The fact is that now things are so much better," he turned a group of pages at once, coming to a picture that Charlie remembered having taken. He and Mr. Wonka stood in front of the little Bucket house; they had just managed to relocate it, and Charlie was getting ready to spend his first day as an apprentice in the factory he had long dreamed of. "You see, my factory came back to life. I had the Oompa Loompas, and then, the best thing in the world, a little boy came to stay with me." He smiled at Charlie as if he had been reading a story and had just produced the best of happy endings.

"Are you happy now, Mr. Wonka?"

"Very happy, my dear boy." Wonka patted him gently on the back as he stood and stepped back to his desk and returned to work.

Charlie was glad, but he couldn't help but turn back to picture of Wonka is the hospital bed. That look, pervaded by sadness, devoid of the sparkle that usually lurked behind the amethyst eyes he loved to look at…he had seen it before, just briefly, when some stray thought cross the candy maker's mind or when the flashbacks were at their worst, Charlie realized that that look was still there. He made up his mind at that moment that he would always be there for Mr. Wonka, to chase the sad thought away, and to make sure that they both ended up with the happiest of happy endings.

Folding the book, he stood and put it back on the shelf. He walked behind Wonka and linked his arms suddenly around the other's shoulder. With a look of indulgence, Wonka turned in his chair and offered Charlie a proper, if stiff, hug. When the hug ended, Charlie pulled back but couldn't resist pressing his lips to Wonka's cheek in the briefest of gestures. Wonka looked a little confused, but returned the smile he was offered.

"Off to bed, Charlie."

"Yes, sir."

finish

Author's Note: Hm…to sequel or not? Reviews are appreciated, and flames are used to flavor the hot and spicy caramel candy hearts, so you can toss a couple of those in too,

Miko No Hoshi


End file.
